


a little more mary jane, a little less spiderman

by ipreferaviators



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Kink Meme, M/M, Not!Fic, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-30
Updated: 2012-08-30
Packaged: 2017-11-13 04:18:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ipreferaviators/pseuds/ipreferaviators
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So Stiles isn’t like an ACTUAL stoner, not really. Stoners in Beacon Hills are those dudes who hide out behind the school and don’t go to class and just discovered weed like, a year ago, and thus are trying to make up for lost time. Stiles is totally not a stoner like that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a little more mary jane, a little less spiderman

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted [here](http://teenwolfkink.livejournal.com/6131.html?thread=4723443#t4723443) as a fill for the following prompt: 
> 
> _"So here's the thing, Stiles is a total pro when it comes to smoking. Adderal doesn't really do the trick for him anymore, so he more often than not smokes up. It's the only time he feels like he can slow his thoughts down and relax. I have this image in my head of the Pack getting together with the intention of smoking. But no one knows how to pack the bowl properly, or roll a joint. And then Stiles walks up and preps everything in seconds flat. He coaches everyone on how to breathe properly, and sets the mood so everyone gets a good high._
> 
> _Alternatively, I'd love to see Derek stumbling upon Stiles while he's smoking up and joining in._
> 
> _Bonus for lazy high sex!"_
> 
> I didn't get Derek in on the smoking action, and there's not really super graphic porniness, but I couldn't help get way into the whole Stiles-is-a-pro-smoker thing.
> 
> **NOTE TO EVERYONE BUT MOST ESPECIALLY LAW ENFORECEMENTY TYPES:** Stiles is not the only one who can do ~research. None of this is from my own personal experience. Yay laws!

So Stiles isn’t like an ACTUAL stoner, not really. Stoners in Beacon Hills are those dudes who hide out behind the school and don’t go to class and just discovered weed like, a year ago, and thus are trying to make up for lost time. Stiles is totally not a stoner like that. He goes to class, sometimes high but usually not, and really? Weed is more of an Adderall substitute for him. Like, Adderall is great and everything, and helps him focus and stop his brain (and limbs) from moving so fast and spastic-y. But weed is even better. And Stiles is very much not new at this whole smoking thing. It’s weird to think about, but Stiles has been smoking since he was twelve. Not a lot, and not very well those first couple of years. When he was eleven, he found the leftover seeds from his mom’s medicinal marijuana plant, hidden in the back shed underneath Stiles’s old sleeping bag that he never used (because camping is so not as cool as they make it seem on TV, and has way more bugs). He hadn’t done anything with them at first, just kept the packet in the bottom drawer of his dresser as a reminder of her. But when he was in middle school, he overheard some older kids talking about trying to steal some weed from an older lady, who Stiles remembered had been diagnosed with cancer, so they could get high and take the weekend off. His twelve-year-old self had liked the idea of taking a weekend off (off from feeling like nothing would ever be okay again, like if he blinked his dad might disappear too, like he’d never be able to stay still long enough to make friends with anyone other than Scott, like there were too many dishes and clothes to wash and meals to cook that he didn’t know how to do). So he’d bought a flower pot and some sod on his way home, planted the seeds, and hidden it all in his closet.

It was terrible, and Stiles hadn’t had the first clue about how to smoke. He’d nearly set his bed on fire, and had to leave the window open for a week before he could even let Scott come up. Of course, the first thing Scott had asked was why the window was open (valid question, as it had been January and SNOWING). Stiles made up something about the window being painted open, and to make it believable, he hadn’t closed it for the rest of middle school. He still doesn’t, actual, but he’s starting to realize that now? It may be for slightly different reasons.

Scott is not the sharpest crayon, and somehow never managed to put together the clues. Not even after Stiles decided to approach it with \research/! and figured out how to set up a decent greenhouse-style set-up in his closet, complete with sunlamp (he’s working on a hydro rig now, but he’s probably got another couple of months of work and allowance before it’s ready to test) and storage. He doesn’t grow a lot, definitely not enough to sell or anything. It’s just. It kind of feels like a connection to his mom, in a stupid, fucked-up way. It makes him feel better, like it made her feel better towards the end.

Stiles is starting to think that maybe he SHOULD have told Scott, though, because the scene before him right now? Is a TRAVESTY. It is an offense to all decent weed everywhere. Stiles kind of wants to cry, except that he’s too disturbed to do anything but stare.

The whole pack, minus Derek, was sprawled all over Derek’s living room when Stiles walked in. Stiles remembers something about Derek running errands tonight, but he’s really not sure what those were, or why the end result was the rest of the pack trying to smoke up on the couch. But there’s a bag of weed on the coffee table, a truly horrifying glass piece lying on its side next to the bag, and four werewolves looking to be in varying degrees of pain and wistfulness.

“We tried,” Scott says. “It’s not my fault it didn’t work.”

“It is totally your fault,” Isaac says. “You’ve been a wolf the longest, you should know these things.”

“Derek’s been a wolf the longest,” Scott says, and Stiles can see him wince at the volume of his own voice. “I didn’t see you asking him.”

Stiles decides that now would be a really good time to interrupt and figure out what the HELL is going on.

“What the hell is going on?” he asks. All four of them turn to stare at him. Erica blinks slowly and deliberately, and Stiles has to remind himself that she’s not allowed to hurt him, not now that he and Scott are pack.

“We tried to get high,” she says, glaring at him. “It sucks.”

“Well, yeah,” Stiles says, shrugging. “Could have told you that.”

Boyd’s eyes narrow at him.

“You knew this would happen?” Boyd sounds legit MAD, and Stiles swallows.

“Uh, sort of?” he tries. Isaac looks at him like Stiles just killed a puppy, and damn it, Stiles can’t handle that look. It’s like, his kryptonite. Isaac is pretty much a puppy himself, and Stiles can’t help but think he’s pitiful and adorable and want to give him cookies like, ALL THE TIME.

“It’s just,” he tries again. “I can see the seeds in that shit from way over here, and you don’t have a grinder or tweezers, so I’m going to assume you just put it in the bowl like that, and it’s ridiculously hard to find good weed in this town, so it’s probably even shittier than it looks. I’m just saying, no wonder you guys have headaches. Do you even know how to use that?” He points at the piece.

Everyone just stares at him.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says. “You’re all big, grown-up werewolves, of course you know how to smoke up. What was I thinking?”

“You smoke?” Scott says. He’s stopped rubbing at his temples, which Stiles thinks is a good sign, but now he looks poleaxed.

“Dude. Why do you think my bedroom window is never shut?” Stiles deliberately does not mention what he is slowly realizing is the real, current reason for that, and hopes Scott doesn’t either.

“It’s painted open, right?” Scott looks even more confused.

“You’re an idiot,” Erica says, refocusing her glare on to Scott. Stiles breathes a sigh of release.

“So?” Isaac asks. Now he’s looking at Stiles as if Stiles IS a puppy, and it’s Christmas morning, and good god that may be worse than the killed-puppy look as far as Stiles’s sanity is concerned. Pack is apparently bad for Stiles’s mental health.

“So what?” Stiles asks, looking at the kitchen, front door, stairs, anywhere but the four hungry-looking werewolves in front of him.

“So, show us how it’s done,” Boyd says. Stiles stares at him.

“I don’t think Derek would like that,” he says, but Erica just rolls her eyes.

“Think of it like pack bonding,” she says. “We’re sharing a relaxing activity together. He’ll love it.”

Stiles thinks about this. He’s pretty sure that bonding or no, Derek will KILL HIM if he gets the whole pack high. But on the other hand, this is one thing Stiles can actually teach the others--one thing he can do that none of the others can. Stiles knows himself well enough to know he can’t pass up that opportunity.

“First off, ditch that shit,” he says, waving a hand towards the table. “You can’t get a decent high off indecent weed.”

“Hey,” Scott protests. “I paid a lot of money for that.”

“Then you got ripped off,” Stiles says. “Give me a minute, I’ll be right back.”

Stiles heads out to his car before he can remind himself of what a truly terrible idea this is. He keeps some in his car, underneath the front passenger seat in a beat-up old fanny pack (which, okay, is dumb, but who’s going to search the sheriff’s kid’s car? And if they did, who is going to look at a camo fanny pack circa 1993 and think “hey, that probably has drugs in it”?). Sometimes he just needs SOMETHING to get through the day. With werewolves, and hunters, and lacrosse, and teachers who hate him, and his dad spending every day in the line of fire--sometimes it’s just too much for one average human to handle. He needs to take some time off. Not a whole weekend, just a half hour here or there. So anyway, he’s got some in his car, along with a spare piece, his old grinder, a tray, cleaning supplies, and some tweezers. He grabs the whole thing and takes it back inside.

“Really, Stiles?” Erica says when he gets back, eyeing the fanny pack with disgust.

“It’s called a hiding place,” Stiles says, taking everything out and laying the items on the table. He settles in to the familiar routine of prepping a bowl: breaking up the weed on the little tray, using the tweezers to get the stems and seeds out, grinding the rest of it down. He’s normally too lazy to clean the screen and piece after every use, but he thinks what the hell, might as well give these guys the best fucking hits of their lives. He breaks out the cleaning swabs and q-tips and starts working the resin off the glass, making sure to set the screen aside carefully first. Once it’s clean, he puts the screen in and fills the bowl. He pulls his lighter out of his pocket and takes a long, deep hit, holding the smoke in until he’s about to cough or choke on it. There’s plenty of smoke on the exhale, and Stiles grins at the dual feeling of satisfaction at a job well done and the beginning of a pretty solid high.

“Dude,” Scott says breathily. Stiles looks up and sees all four of them staring at him, with varying levels of awe and jealousy on their faces. He blinks.

“That was so cool,” Isaac says, grinning at Stiles. “You’re like, hardcore. Awesome.”

“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?” Erica says. She looks more thoughtful than jealous, and Stiles thinks maybe he’ll try to derail that by giving her the next hit.

“So do you guys know how to use this?” He asks again, waving the piece and lighter around. He’s starting to think that maybe they actually don’t, which would explain a lot about how sober they were when he showed up versus how much burnt weed is spread across the table. Travesty, man.

“You just breathe in, right?” Boyd asks. He’s inching over to the table, so slow it almost looks like he’s not aware he’s doing it.

“Er,” Stiles says. “Not exactly?”

He explains the basics of how to use it, how to go slow on lowering the flame, how to start your inhale before taking your finger off the carb, and how to draw the smoke in deep and keep it there. Boyd catches on quickly, and by the time Erica gets her first decent hit, he’s already three sheets to the wind and giggling against the couch. Scott takes a while, but he finally gets it (pretty typical for Scott, actually), and he and Erica wind up sprawled on top of each other on the floor, petting each other’s hair and whispering things into each other’s ears. It’s mildly disturbing, so Stiles turns his attention back to Isaac. Isaac, who can’t seem to coordinate the what? THREE? movements that are required. He keeps his finger over the carb, or doesn’t remember to breathe in before letting it go, or stops breathing in after he releases it. He pretty much manages to do every combination of everything except the one combination that will get him high. Stiles has taken more than his share of hits to demonstrate, so he doesn’t really feel frustrated. Just sad for Isaac, who is still depressingly sober and back to the dead puppy look. Stiles HATES the dead puppy look.

“Okay,” Stiles says. “Here’s what we’re going to do.”

He looks at Isaac, who just looks back expectantly. Stiles waits for Isaac to say something, and then forgets what he thought Isaac was supposed to say. Finally Isaac just nods, and Stiles takes that as an agreement to the plan.

He draws in a big hit, bigger than he’d normally take on his own, and reaches a hand around to the back of Isaac’s neck. He pulls Isaac in, pressing the mouths together and parting his lips to let the smoke transfer to Isaac. Isaac, however, does not follow the plan. He jerks back, eyes wide, and Stiles lets out the rest of his breath before frowning.

“Why’d you pull back?” he asks.

Isaac stares at him.

“Your...your MOUTH,” Isaac says, still looking vaguely terrified.

“Yes?” Stiles prompts.

“Was on MY mouth,” Isaac continues. Stiles nods.

“It’s kind of hard to shotgun without that part,” he says. When Isaac continues to not blink, Stiles thinks maybe he’s overestimated them again. “Which is what happens when I take a hit, and then I blow it into your mouth, so you can get high without taking one yourself. Easier that way.”

Isaac seems to think about this, and apparently decides that he’s officially on board, because he smiles a little and moves closer to Stiles.

“So what do I have to do?” he asks.

“Just make sure your mouth is open,” Stiles says. He hears Scott whisper “that’s what SHE said” at a very non-whispery decibel. Boyd starts giggling again. Stiles rolls his eyes.

He takes another hit and steps forward, pressing their mouths together again. This time, Isaac stays put, but he only opens his mouth a few millimeters, and Stiles winds up with most of the smoke up his nose.

“Fuck,” Stiles hisses, feeling his eyes water. “If we’re going to do this, Lahey, you have to commit. Fully, completely, commit. No going halfway.”

Isaac looks embarrassed, but he nods. Stiles nods back, and takes one more hit before pulling Isaac in.

Isaac commits. Isaac commits like a fucking marriage ceremony, and Stiles has just enough time to think “WHOA TONGUE ISAAC’S TONGUE WHAT” before Isaac is pulling back and looking terrified. Stiles blinks at him, confused on SO many levels, when he hears the growling.

That’s pretty familiar growling. Stiles is very closely acquainted with that particular growling.

“Hey, Derek,” he says, looking over to where Derek is standing in the entryway. Derek looks legit PISSED. Like, rip-Stiles-limb-from-limb-before-yanking-his-throat-out-via-teeth pissed. Not good.

“Sorry, oh my god, I’m so sorry,” Isaac says, and Stiles blinks again. Why is Isaac sorry? He’s not the one who got the pack high. He didn’t even GET high, unless that really enthusiastic shotgunning helped.

“Get. Out.” Derek says, and Isaac’s eyes widen. He goes and grabs Boyd by the armpits, lifting him up and moving towards the staircase. Erica whistles, low and impressed, before Scott slaps her arm and levers himself up on her shoulder. They leave together, following Boyd and Isaac, and then Stiles is alone. Alone with a pack alpha who may or may not want to murder him for compromising his pack.

“What the hell, Stiles,” Derek says, and it is unfortunately not a question. A question, Stiles could handle. He could answer it, and then they’d go about their business. Far away from each other. This sounds more like a final judgment.

“They were doing it wrong,” is about all he can come up with. Based on Derek’s unimpressed look, it isn’t enough. “I didn’t like, volunteer. I just got here, and they were all sad and depressed because they suck at getting high, and hey! If there’s one thing I know, it’s getting high, so here comes Stiles to save the day, as always, right?”

Derek keeps staring at him. Stiles swallows.

“Sorry?”

“You were kissing Isaac,” Derek says, and again, it’s not a question.

“No, I was shotgunning him,” Stiles says. “For all that he’s a werewolf, he has pretty shitty coordination.”

“That didn’t look like shotgunning,” Derek growls. “That looked like _making out_.”

“Well, that’s because he sucks at shotgunning almost as much as he sucks at taking a hit of his own,” Stiles answers. “I’m not sure he got the point.”

Derek just growls in answer, and Stiles feels the hairs on the back of his neck raise when he realizes Derek is moving closer, PROWLING closer like he’s a weretiger instead of a werewolf, and oh shit. Stiles is going to die, and he’s no longer entirely sure why.

“He had his tongue in your mouth,” Derek says. Stiles tries not to whimper as Derek comes around the couch. “And you let him.”

Derek is right in front of Stiles now, and Stiles is trying to keep his head clear, in case he needs to run for his life anytime soon (not that it would help, he’s not exactly slow but Derek is a FREAKING WEREWOLF, okay?). But the extra hits for Isaac are starting to hit him (pun intended), and the only thing he can really react to is the close proximity of Derek, and how hot the air around Derek feels, and the way Derek’s eyebrows are pulled together, and the way Derek’s hands feels around his waist, and the way Derek’s tongue feels against his neck, and wait. WHAT?

Stiles pushes Derek away and gapes at him.

“What the hell, dude?” This one really is a question, because Stiles has NO IDEA what is going on. That was Derek, LICKING HIS NECK. Derek doesn’t let go of Stiles’s waist, but he leans back enough to make eye contact.

“You let my beta kiss you,” Derek says, as if that clears everything up.

Stiles just stares at him.

“You let my beta _kiss_ you,” Derek repeats, and there’s enough frustration in his expression that Stiles stops short. Derek looks like he’s half a second away from shoving Stiles down onto the couch and just rutting against him until they both come, and Stiles discovers that he’s really, REALLY okay with that idea.

“Oh,” he breathes. “Oh. Um.”

Derek just growls, and then Stiles really does find himself on the couch, his body covered in the warmth of Derek’s body against his, and his mouth covered in the feel of Derek’s lips and tongue. He thinks maybe Derek is chasing away the taste of Isaac, trying to make Stiles forget what it felt like to be kissed by anyone other than Derek. It’s totally working.

“Nnngh,” Stiles manages to groan. Derek is heavy and hot on top of him, and this is pretty much every fantasy Stiles has never allowed himself to have. Derek is in constant motion, rolling his hips down over Stiles’s, licking and kissing down Stiles’s neck, fingers petting and stroking through Stiles’s hair. It’s an assault on his senses, and it’s really fucking hot, and Stiles is really fucking high, so he doesn’t feel as bad as he possibly should when he comes in his pants approximately two minutes after landing on the couch.

“Um,” Stiles tries to say, but Derek interrupts him.

“Mine,” he growls out, and Stiles feels himself shudder against the waiting dam of feelings (stupid, STUPID feelings) that threaten to break at that one word.

“Yeah,” he manages to say, clinging to Derek’s hips, still shifting against his own. “Yeah, yours.”


End file.
